Pourquoi tant de Larmes? – Why so many Tears ?
by albaKonst
Summary: Started off as a despcription of Series 1 ep 7, then just sort of went off on a tangent! Dorcas/Sir Timothy. Sir Timothy comes into the Post Office to see Dorcas. Includes flashback. Please R&R.


Dorcas looked up from the accounts she was perusing. The post office was not in any sort of serious trouble but she was grateful for the commission of gates from Timothy, not to mention the increased time he was spending in there because of it. Really though, if she was honest with herself, she knew it was just an excuse. And Adelaide wasn't falling for any of it.

Her eyes flicked towards to door, just as the bell above it clanged noisily. A gloriously familiar figure entered. His leather boots creaked as he strode in. And, ducking his head to fit under the low frame, he looked down at her with a grin.

"Hello Timothy," Dorcas greeted him softly, the furrow in her brow previously cause by the accounts had now disappeared completely.

"Dorcas," he acknowledged, removing his hat with his strong hands. They looked almost out of place on a squire, who need not do a proper day's work in his life, as if he had been born into the wrong place entirely in society. "How are you?" he enquired courteously.

"All the better for seeing..." Dorcas stopped herself, before her runaway tongue gave away her thoughts, and stumbled to cover her tracks. "... the order of your gates," she finished with relief. "They are giving Matthew so much pleasure; although I'm afraid they may have made us rather unpopular with the Misses Pratts."

"Don't worry, I think we can endure it," Timothy replied with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that matched that in Dorcas'. Those eyes, Timothy mused, were more familiar to him than his own. Their sapphire depths seemed to hold secrets just waiting to be unearthed. They were young, yet wise; kind, yet strong; happy, yet had known such sadness; their once glowing radiance had been dimmed by crying. With a start, Timothy snapped out of his reverie and, realising he had been staring, quickly struggled for something to say. What had they been talking about? "Do you, er, do you..." Of course, the gates! "Do you have the drawings to hand?"

"Yes, of course." He had been staring at her in the way she loved. A faint smile etched on his lips betrayed that he was engrossed in thinking about her; she knew that look. He, realising his expression, stuttered and stammered for words. She grinned wickedly. I'll just go and fetch them from the forge." Dorcas turned on her heel and drifted through the house and out the back door.

Timothy sighed contentedly as he watched her sweep gently out the room. He moved forward and leant his head against the yellow door frame that led behind the counter, staring into the kitchen. He looked around, his heart bursting with affection. He would gladly spend the rest of his days here and never step a foot into the manor again. He knew every insignificant detail of this post office: The lemon-yellow walls that glowed golden in the setting sun; the hearth that was always warm and inviting; the delicate lace table-cloth that, despite having seen better days, would not look out of place in his own home. No, he mentally corrected himself with a sigh, his own _house_. He turned to his left to face the sorting shelves. AB/35 – the blue savings bank form, K21 – the postal order abstract, XY13 – the cash account sheet. He could recite them all by heart, and was as quick as any post girl at sorting the mail. Well, almost any – Lord knows they had raced each other enough.

Presently, Timothy turned back round to face the kitchen. It was warm and familiar and oh so enticing! He couldn't help himself anymore; he tiptoed in, slowly inhaling the scent of Zillah's freshly baked bread. The floors creaked as her heavy footsteps shuffled around upstairs. Timothy's eyes flicked over to the bookshelves. He strayed absently to peruse the old, leather-bound volumes. Just then, his attention was distracted by a large book sitting open on the table. It was one similar to the ledger Dorcas had been flicking through earlier at the counter. The clear, delicate script that flowed effortlessly across the page made Timothy's heart ache with desire. He longed to sit at this table and let his pen glide along the lines with _her _at his side, just as they had when they were young and she'd still been learning all this. His hand lovingly stroked the page and, in doing so, his ring bearing the family seal slipped off his little finger and clattered to the floor.

Dorcas stood poised at the doorway, drawings in hand. Her heart yearned and a drowsy numbness pained her sense as she stared at Timothy's turned back. Her eyes stung. Her cheeks flushed. She felt an odd twisting sensation in the pit of her stomach. And yet, she could stay standing her forever, just watching him. From behind, he could still be the carefree teenager who knew nothing of family obligations, loveless marriages or suppressed desires. She longed for those late autumn days when the air was heavy with the thought of a storm and they would ride about the country, only to be drenched within minutes and find themselves having to trudge back through muddy fields in sodden clothes, laughing and happy.

The ring clattered to the floor, startling them sharply from their separate reminiscent thoughts. It hit the stone tiles and came to rest near Dorcas' feet. Simultaneously, they bent down to retrieve it from a dark crack. Dorcas let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Timothy gazed longingly into her eyes. Dorcas seemed frozen staring into the depths of his. The ring, discarded, lay between them.

"Sir Timothy! What a delight!" Zillah's scratchy voice came from the doorway. They quickly rose, embarrassed and flushed, and Timothy hurriedly picked up the ring to force it back on his finger.

"Zillah. A pleasure indeed," he replied, suddenly aware of his surroundings once more. Zillah glanced at Dorcas and gave her a suspicious look. Just at that moment, Laura appeared behind Zillah.

"Sir Timothy! I thought I heard you," Laura greeted him. Her gaze drifted downwards towards his left hand, which was gently brushing Dorcas' right. Startled, and abruptly conscious of his actions, he stepped away from the similarly embarrassed postmistress beside him.

"Laura," he recovered quickly, "and how are you this fine morning?" Laura looked surprised at his comment and, in explanation, turned her head to look out of the window. He followed her eye line. Rain whipped streaks of misery from an omniscient sky.

"I am well, thank you, sir," replied Laura politely. "And I'm sure it's a fine morning for you, sir" she hastily added. "Please excuse me; I must take Old Amos a parcel."

"Of course, Laura," Dorcas managed, somewhat perturbed by Laura's "fine morning for you" comment. She had always suspected the girl was aware of more than she let on, but, well, she and Timothy must be more careful.

Dorcas turned to face her gentle... _the _gentle squire, with the intention of telling him this. She got swiftly distracted. Staring up at him, she looked into the tender features she was so accustomed to. But they were changing, so gradually, almost imperceptibly. Lines were etched in his handsome face like the contours of the lands he looked after; his obligations were slowly leaving their marks. He took a small but determined step towards her.

"Timothy... Timothy, I –" She was cut off by his fingers cautiously tracing a line up her arm. The seemingly innocent movement felt... wrong, somehow; forbidden. She turned away from him, towards the counter. He did it again, on the back of her arm this time. She couldn't help herself; she leant back against his chest with the faintest moan. He rested his chin on her head and they remained like that for what could have been hours. All too soon, the intimate moment was shattered into sharp shards – dangerous shards – by a loud 'Hmph!' from the doorway, followed by a shuffling of feet. Zillah had still been standing there; she had seen everything.

They gazed at each other, aghast.

"Dorcas, I –, I –," he stammered. "I'm sorry," he eventually finished lamely. "I shouldn't... I shouldn't have..."

"You should be getting home. To Adelaide."

"Yes. Yes, I should go to... back to the manor." He glanced at her, and walked out, using the back door this time, his strong leather boots creaking as he left.

Dorcas leant against the table, tears threatening to overflow and fall to the floor like collectable heartache. She didn't even really know why; just the feeling that, like so many time before, he was walking out and leaving her standing here alone on this very spot; walking back to his obligation, his position, his _wife_. It may have been her own stupid fault, she mused, but if she knew what it meant, living like this, she would never have done it; never have refused him. She crossed the room to look out the window and lolled her head against the wall. Glancing out, she saw Timothy mirroring the exact same position as her, against his dark grey horse. They caught each other's eyes. The barest flicker of a sad smile crossed his lips, a dictionary full of words flew unspoken, and he deftly mounted his horse and was gone. A different hose, she pondered, yet it was familiar. Then she remembered, casting her mind slowly back.

* * *

A gentle dirt track. A not quite clear sky. A couple of too old to be children, too young to be adults. Flashes of tree chase them as they streak past, struggling to keep up. The very clouds above, few though they are, seem to have stopped to watch them. They whoop and cheer and jeer and yell. Rabbits scarper, lest the dramatic hooves obliterate them.

The horses bolt faster than the wind. They race. One is slightly ahead. They race. It is dark grey and fearful proud. They race. The other is black and smaller; more compact.

Glimpses of sun appear through the trees. Stones underfoot fly out the way; frightened. They hurtle further – faster. The clattering of hooves rips passionately through the serene silence. The riders are intensely focused; they miss the darkening sky and rumbles of thunder.

The smaller horse is gaining on the grey. They draw level. All at once, the heavens open: Water pours in torrents from a tangled mass of cloud. The horses, shocked senseless, skid in the muddy sludge that the rain has introduced to the track. Puddles as big as ponds litter the path and the magnificent beasts rear their heads and buck, sending each already drenched rider to the ground with an impressively loud 'squelch'.

The horses gallop off into the watery distance.

Dorcas looked at Timothy, his face covered in mud. They both burst out laughing.

"Why are _you_ laughing?" They queried simultaneously.

"Have you any idea what you _look_ like?" The two of them replied, and consequently collapsed into heaps of giggles again.

Somewhat more composed, Dorcas heaved herself off the ground and stuck her dripping hand out for Timothy to take.

"Come one," she said. It was more of an order than a suggestion.

"Where are we going?"

"There's no point sitting here and wallowing about the rain; let's enjoy it!" Bemused, he took her hand and pulled himself up. She ran through the trees at the side of the track, dragging him after her. The bottom of her dress soon became caked in mud, as did his boots. His top hat lay forgotten in the mire behind them.

Soon, laughing and wet, they arrived in the clearing. Dorcas looked up into the cascades of rain, inhaled its sweet smell, and spun round in circles, her arms outstretched. She began to sing out loud.

"Oh once I was a little tiny girl with a hey, ho, the wind and the RAIN!" She careered back across the clearing to Timothy and hauled him to the centre.

"You're mad," He replied, disbelievingly.

"Oh, be quiet!" Soon they were both running around in stitches, completely indifferent to the weather.

Timothy collapsed onto the soggy ground.

"I'm sodden" he announced, "and so are you; just look at your dress!"

"Oh no – Zillah'll be so angry." Dorcas could just picture her young nursemaid's face when she saw her filthy attire. Without really realising what she was doing, she stood up and pulled her new chiffon frock over her head and hung it on a tree to wash in the rain, leaving her standing in front of the future-squire in her somewhat indecent white shift. Looking back, perhaps Timothy only followed suit to spare her embarrassment, but it did not seem that way at the time and follow her lead he did: Soon Dorcas' dress and a significant proportion of Timothy's clothes were now strung over various obliging vegetation in the immediate vicinity.

Topless and barefoot, Timothy grabbed Dorcas' hands and started dancing with her. They whirled around the clearing, drops of water flying off their noses and chins, revelling in the solitude that came with the impromptu downpour. The dirt squelched between their toes and the soundless music that propelled their bodies was almost tangible to them.

"Dorcas! Dorcas, stop! I'm so dizzy! Stop, my head!"

"Chicken," she taunted and they spun around even faster. Tree merged with sky behind a watery screen. Green and grey twisted like paint in an artist's palette, twisting like the two youths as they danced and twirled, until one was barely distinguishable from the other.

* * *

An older, wiser and slightly sadder Dorcas sighed as she remembered that rainy day. She remembered the long, horseless trek back from the clearing, which did not seem half as long when wrapped in the arm of a... friend. She remembered saying goodbye behind the forge, laughing and joking and silently crying in the rain as he walked away once more. She remembered Zillah's expression when she caught her sneaking in the back door with her wet dress slung over her shoulder and her sopping hair matted to her face.

"Oh, what could have been," She moaned out loud. She slumped dejectedly to the floor and whispered to the empty room; "I thought I was over you, but it's true. I love you more than I did before, but darling, what can I do?" How hopelessly, wonderfully poetic I am, she thought, almost laughing. "What could have been!"

No! She scolded herself sternly. Quickly getting to her feet, she dried her eyes and walked towards the counter.

Swiftly, she got on with the life she had chosen; for it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.


End file.
